Nothing Is True
by Coilerfan35
Summary: Just married to a Templar, and awaiting the birth of his first son, Altair contemplates his life, as well as the lives of his wife and son, and realizes exactly how true his Creed is. One Shot.


**An: First Alty/Maria fic. Hopefully this is alright (It is very late, and I am quite tired, so I can't think of much to say here other than enjoy and tell me what you think!)**

**Twitter: twitter(dot)com(slash)alexosaurus**

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><p>The day was young and the sun had barely peeked over the horizon when his eyes opened. He was one of those men, waking early in the morning to appreciate the beauty of the world before he went on his way to scrub away the darkness and grime that marred and distorted said beauty. Stretching his hands over his head, and leaning his back against the headboard of his bed, he tried desperately to focus on the beautiful show being painted in an array of pinks, blues, and purples outside, but found it practically impossible with the true beauty sleeping beside him.<p>

Turned on her side, his lover slept. The crisp white sheets that had once been perfect the night before, had long since become ruffled and haphazard, and only a single corner rested over her curved hip. Her body was bare, but all he could view from her sleeping position was the expanse of ivory skin that created her back. Pale scars littered her there, and even as she slept he could see her trained muscles working with every breath she took. She was a woman of strength, and a woman of beauty, but such a woman, so elegant and graceful, yet fierce and fiery, couldn't tell her full story through looks alone.

The paleness of her skin and the shimmering azure color of her eyes proved enough to tell of her English origins in the Muslim world, but no extent of color could go as far as showing a simple glimmer into who she was. Never meant to do the duties of a woman, she was nothing more than a wolf in sheep's clothing when she was a young child. Her actions and style of dress never won her parents over, and even as a babe it seemed that she was determined to break apart her land's social norms. A sword was meant to be in her hand, and it seemed that the Knights Templar was the only road she was willing to take. Granted, she had to disguise herself, but her skill and prowess easily impressed her fellow Templars in all rank. Though, as all who pretend know, you can only pretend for so long.

Eventually, knowledge of her true gender swept through her people, and many automatically took to resenting her despite her talent. One man proved different of thought, and took her under his wing. Robert de Sable may have died by his blade, but every day he thanked the man, for without him, he was sure his lover would be nothing. So she continued to train with the Templars, and soon found solace and friendship in many of them. She became a master swordsman, and an exceptionally skilled fighter, as well as becoming de Sable's right hand woman when he ascended to the position of Grandmaster of the Order.

It was because of her loyalty to de Sable, and her love for her Order that he met her...and almost killed her. It had been years since she impersonated her Grandmaster, but he still remembered every aspect of the encounter vividly. He remembered the feel of her helm; smooth, but searing hot from the sun's piercing rays, and he remembered setting his eyes upon her face for the first time; beautiful, but angered. He remembered believing it sorcery, until her spiteful tongue victoriously stated that the Master Assassin had indeed been tricked. He remembered her voice, informing him that Saracen and Templar were joining arms against his own because of the men he killed, and he remembered the surprise, and even anger, that laced her tongue when he refused to kill her. To this day, if he hadn't been so caught up in de Sable's workings, he swears he would have complimented her beauty, if only to anger her that much more.

But alas he had been caught up; forced to leave Jerusalem with all haste to stop the joining of the two forces as quickly as possible. It was there that he met the Christian king, and it was there that he struck down Robert de Sable, and learned of the treachery within his own home.

The thought of Al Mualim still brought forth a sizzling anger, because even though the 'love' given to him was weak, it was still the only love he knew of as he trained and ascended through the hierarchy of the Assassins. And knowing that this man who had led the Brotherhood so well was a traitor, practically flipped his world upside down. It was that day, the day that his father figure's blood stained the sleeves of his robe, and the Apple came into his possession, as well as the possibility of the Brotherhood becoming his own, did he realize truly that nothing is true, and everything is permitted.

His lover had proved such once again, when he accompanied her through her fall from Templar grace.

Armand Bouchart was a strict man, and one dedicated to the principles that women should be around to look pretty and care for children. Seeing a woman so powerful within the Order offended him, and so, he made it one of his missions to eliminate her from their ranks. The first blow, taking away her fleet en route for Limassol, and abandoning her to find her own way to Cyprus. It was there that he met her in combat once again, and it was there that she became his prisoner.

And so, together to Cyprus they went; she constantly raving about the Templar's actions even though it was quite obvious Armand was in no way friendly with her. She had so much passion for her Order, and it very well broke his heart to see that taken from her. Slowly and surely through her constant imprisonment and escape, she realized the true Templar intentions; that such a holy crusade had to be formulated and executed through sin and deception. They turned on her, and metaphorically bloodied the cross she once wore proudly on her chest, so she turned on them, and literally bloodied the cross they wore on their chests. It was because of her help that he was able to dispatch the Templar Grandmaster once again, and it was with her that he decided to travel afterwards.

Now, here she lay. Once a Templar elite, and now a sister within the Brotherhood, and newly married wife to the Assassin Grandmaster.

The thought sparked an almost evil smile on his lips, and the bed which they slept on creaked ever so slightly as he moved out of his reclined position, to hover over her. His lips descended to touch her nape; the long tendrils of her ebony hair pushed over her shoulder and shrouding her face. He felt a barely-there shiver against his kiss, but it failed to awaken her. He continued his descent, leaving languid, lingering kisses along her spine until he heard her grumble and whimper in confusion.

"Altaïr," she called out, her voice soft and tired. "What are you doing?"

"Awakening you," he whispered obviously, his lips placing one last suckling kiss to her lower back, before he rose up on his elbow.

She groaned and looked over her shoulder; pushing her hair from her face as she tried to ascertain exactly what time it was. Noticing that the sun seemed only inches above the horizon she groaned even louder, and returned to her original sleeping position. "It's barely past dawn and after last night I have no idea how you aren't sleeping in your grave."

"I'm sure Markos wishes we both were. You were quite...loud last night. I'm sure he heard you, even from next door."

"Yes, I'm the disruptive one, while it seems you made it your mission to break everything within this room that could possibly be broken," she harrumphed, slapping the hand that was sensually creeping over her _still_ growing stomach. "He offers Limassol to you to be used as the Assassin's base, and this is how you repay him. By completely shattering the vase his aunt gave him in your lustful stupor."

"I actually believe he might thank me," he chuckled, the vase still a complete eye sore even as it lay broken and scattered across the floor of their room. "I know I would."

"As would I," she smiled, rolling onto her back and heaving a sigh as the weight of her unborn child pressed against her internals. Her hands rested on the bump, her smile brightening when her husband bent forward and dragged his lips against the taut skin. She heard him whisper to their child, expressing his love for their baby and causing a joyous, and slightly uncomfortable stirring within her. "He hears you," she chuckled, her hand rising to run her fingers through the short strands of his hair, while guiding his hand to the place on her stomach where she was sure he would feel as well.

His smile was brilliant, and once more his lips descended to place scattered kisses all across her stomach, tickling her, and bringing soft giggles from her lips. His eyes rose to hers; chocolate and cerulean mixing sensually as happiness seemed to drown them and eliminate their will to speak. "I can't wait to meet him," he spoke eventually, his voice distant and almost sad as he imagined his son with a father like he had. "I can't wait to hold him, and to kiss him...to show him all the love and affection he deserves from a father."

"You're going to be a wonderful father, Altaïr, and our son will love you with all his heart. I have no doubt about that," she soothed, resting the tips of her fingers against his cheek and urging him further up her body. He moved to rest beside her; his forehead falling against her own as she continued to softly caress his face with the very tips of her fingers. "You've never doubted yourself before, why start now?"

"Because now there is a child involved, and it is my responsibility to take care of him. I don't know how to be a father, Maria. What will happen if I mess up, and it ends up hurting him? I don't want to be responsible for the death of my son-"

"Altaïr," she interrupted, forcibly grasping his jaw and keeping him from talking. "Listen to me. Just because your father _couldn't_ act like a father doesn't mean you don't know how to act as one yourself. I don't know how to be a mother. I've never had a child, but I trust myself to know what will be the best for my son... Just like I trust you to know the same. I have no doubt that our baby will be perfectly fine... We turned out okay, and look where we started."

"I have been," he smiled, chuckling as he began tracing absent patterns on her stomach. "I always think in the early morning...and today I couldn't help but constantly wonder how we got here."

"Why question it?" Maria asked, moving onto her side and resting her head against her hand. "We found something within each other that we couldn't find with anyone else. Where you were born, what you believe, where you started...it doesn't matter. The only thing that's important is where you ended, and how happy you are when you get there."

He contemplated the thought as he looked over her shoulder to see his robes, as well as hers, thrown across the room. The edge of her cloak caught his attention; the red cross practically burning before his eyes. So much evil was associated with that cross, yet that cross still adorned her cloak as a tribute to her God and a tribute to herself. A far off thought crossed his mind as he remembered the fight they had over the subject; he demanding that she destroy the garment now that she lived within the Brotherhood, and she refusing time and time again.

"_You live within our ranks, yet you refuse to rid yourself of the mark of murderers! You train with us, eat with us, and help us with our missions, yet still you refuse to burn that cross! Explain to me, Maria, what is the sense in that?"_

_Once furious, she grew eerily calm and walked towards his angered form perched over the magnificent desk passed down through the Grandmasters. She reached for his hand, and turned it so she could place her cloak within his grasp. He looked down at the cross and had to suppress his want to spit with anger. She reached up and touched his cheek, allowing their eyes to meet before she spoke in a measured tone. "This cross is not the mark of murderers, at least not to me. I wear this still because I did not abandon my faith. I wear this cross as a tribute to God, not an excuse to do whatever I see fit in the name of God. I wear it in red to represent the blood Jesus spilled for all who believe in him, I do not wear it as a badge of honor for the blood I have spilled. I am a Templar in the sense that I am a devout Christian...not because I seek to destroy humanity with religion as my reasoning. You are a man with a strong mind Altaïr. You're so full of compassion and acceptance, so please...don't ask me to change."_

"I love you," he had said the same words after their fight, right before he cleared his desk with one fell swoop of his arm and made love to her on its dark mahogany top. Seeing her now, aglow from her pregnancy and happy to be by his side made him silently agree to her words and bring their lips together in a passionate display of the feelings they felt for each other.

He realized then, as he contemplates now, that the past had molded her perfectly, just as his had done. Without her Templar rank he would have never met her, and over and over he imagined what mess he would be in if he hadn't met her. She had given him so much in the short time he had known her; the kind of love that could easily cause him to stay his blade, companionship and trust unable to be shared with another individual, and a sense of respect that gripped his stomach in an unrelenting vice.

So here he was, once a man taught that love could only weaken, holding a woman – a Templar – in his arms, while she peppered tender kisses all over his neck and face, and cradled the hand he rested over her pregnant belly as close to her body as possible.

_Nothing is true._

_Everything is permitted._


End file.
